


Dream's End

by fushiginokunino



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, combined with just rampant speculation, mainly rated for references to the End book you know the one, we are exploring gerry sadness and lots of parallels today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 17:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20474528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fushiginokunino/pseuds/fushiginokunino
Summary: Of course, if he could have ended, he would have long ago—though how long, he couldn’t say. How much time had passed since he had last been called? Moments? Days? Centuries? It felt like eternity: almost enough to make him forget the agony of it, the sharp, vivid wrongness of the living world.





	Dream's End

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the August round of the [Magnus Archives Creation Challenge](magnuscc.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> The round's theme was "Songs," and mine was Solemn Dream by Dirt Poor Robins, which very much makes me think of a certain significant overlap between Terminus and Beholding. Also, I just have a lot of Gerry feelings (who doesn't??)

Gerard Keay stood—no, _existed_—in front of the bookshop's door, willing it with every shred of consciousness he could muster not to open. Not that he had any control over that. He had always known what was behind it, and always would. Still, it towered over him, larger than it had ever been, and he hoped he would not be forced to see. Not again.

Even closed, he could smell it. It stank of that particular scent of blood that seemed to perpetually permeate this not-a-place, the one that recalled an old razor blade and seeping skin and fishing wire.

It figured, really. He had refused to give his death to her, to immortalize her in his final utterance, but even then he’d doubted that would banish her. As long as he was, so she would be also.

All the more reason to go.

Of course, if he could have ended, he would have long ago—though how long, he couldn’t say. How much time had passed since he had last been called? Moments? Days? Centuries? It felt like eternity: almost enough to make him forget the agony of it, the sharp, vivid wrongness of the living world.

It was worse even than here, where the best he could do was wait interminably for either the door to open or himself to turn away, into the next nightmarish vision. To pass through a snow-covered graveyard, or a tunnel slick with metallic red. To reach out and feel light and shadow, woodcuts and animal bones beneath his fingertips. To see her turn and walk away, the woman whose shape was vague in remembrance but whose voice rang as clearly in his mind as it ever had.

She had stopped him outside of a coffee shop, he thought. Or perhaps that was merely a convenient invention. Regardless—

“You have a destiny too, don’t you?” There had been a look of not-quite-pity in her eyes, though he could scarce imagine it now, memories flickering as a candle flame before him. Maybe her words would have stung less if he hadn’t been going through his un-rebellious phase. Maybe not.

“I don’t _ want _ a destiny,” he had spat in reply.

“I don’t think I wanted one either,” she said wistfully, before leaving him to wonder, “But maybe you have time.”

And he did wonder. He had avoided becoming part of some grand legacy, at least. Had done his best to disrupt best-laid plans where he found them. Then he had died. He had died without ever really knowing who he was. Surely that was enough?

Yet he wanted to reach out to her. To ask what she had seen in him. Then, he had known that pain would follow, as now he remembered. He could feel, even still, the agony in his flesh, burned up to the neck. But his body and mind were no longer whole enough to know which was worse, the pain or the uncertainty.

Not that it mattered. He couldn’t do other than to watch her fade as he was overwhelmed by visions of horror and hospital rooms, faceless crowds and writhing insects. He had no choice.

It wasn’t so different after all, being trapped in a purgatory of fear. Only now, he no longer remembered which of those fears belonged to him.

The Archivist could stand to hurry it up a little, he thought, finding himself scowling at that damn door again. He had liked the Archivist—had liked _Jon_—all thoughtful frowns and wry incredulity. Of course, he had liked Gertrude, too, for all her faults, so that was hardly a guarantee of anything. Like as not he’d been filed at the Magnus Institute for later reference. Or left behind. Again.

But the door was on fire.

_ The door was on fire. _

Its wood splintered and collapsed, crackling warmly as it fell away. The smell of smoke began to overpower the awful stench of blood, but he found it far less choking, and those flames that grew around him didn't hurt. He couldn't remember when last something hadn't hurt.

As a voice came above the din, for first time in a very long time, he allowed himself to hope.

_ You owe me one, Gerry. Rest in— Just rest. _

With the last vestige of his fading consciousness, he smiled—all of his own volition. And so, at last, Gerard Keay ended.


End file.
